


stab the body

by lamprophony



Series: it hurts until it doesn't [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Painplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soulless Sam Winchester, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony
Summary: Set Season 6, before Dean figures out Sam doesn't have a soul anymore.Something's wrong with Sam. Dean can't quite put his finger on it.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: it hurts until it doesn't [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571341
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	stab the body

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings for sexist thoughts (oh Dean) and victim blaming mentality.

Dean opens his eyes slowly, head spinning unpleasantly. The whole world feels cold, unsteady. His stomach lurches dangerously, bile pooling in his mouth. He feels the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine, cold leather of the backseat cradling his body. He tries to turn onto his side but gasps as the movement causes pain to blossom across his left arm and shoulder, deep and vicious.

“Don't move,” a voice says, flat and irritated. “You're in the Impala, we're heading back to the motel.”

 _Sam_ , Dean thinks with relief. He wonders for a moment what kind of monster got him – for some reason he can't remember – before he slips back into unconsciousness. 

\---

Next thing he knows, Dean is spread out on the rough surface of a motel room comforter, stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. His left side aches strangely, in a way that tells him the wound is serious but probably not life threatening. It feels… remote, like a pain that sits outside of his body. Either he’s way father gone than he realizes, or Sammy gave him the good stuff. 

Speak of the devil. Sam leans over him, his hair falling around his face. Dean blearily reaches up to touch, soft strands slipping through his fingers. “Dean,” Sam says. He looks strangely flat, bored and a little irritated but not worried. _Must not be too bad then,_ Dean thinks woozily. “You really fucked this one up, dude.” Sam’s moving quickly, too fast for Dean’s tired eyes to keep track, ripping Dean’s shirt open with the emergency scissors from the neckline down. 

“Hey, I like this shirt,” Dean mumbles. 

“Shut up,” Sam says flatly. He doesn’t bother pulling the shirt away once it’s cut open, just leaves it in tatters between Dean’s back and the bed. He cleans the wound quickly, movements route and practiced from years of close calls. Dean doesn’t bother to watch, lets his head thump back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, vision fading in and out. He can feel the needle piercing the tattered edges of his skin, but it doesn’t hurt, only a faint tugging sensation as the thread drags against his skin. 

A hand slaps his face, a little harder than necessary. Dean’s eyes fly open and he rolls his head to look over at Sam. “You can’t fall sleep, Dean,” Sam says, tone indicating he thinks Dean is a complete moron. “You might have a concussion, the striga got you good.” Dean doesn’t have the energy to do anything but nod vaguely to show he understands. What the fuck did Sam give him, anyway? He wants to ask but he can’t seem to dredge up the energy to open his mouth. 

Sam’s stripping his own clothes off now. His movements are stiff but from what Dean can see – barely anything, to be fair – his skin is bruised but unbroken. He throws his clothes carelessly to the floor – he never used to do that, was always so neat and careful with his things – and then leans in to cup Dean’s face, kisses his open mouth. 

They’ve done this before, had sex after a bad hunt, but not usually like this. Sam’s always been too clean, too much of a neat freak, the kind of guy who always showers before sex. He doesn’t seem to care, now, holding Dean’s face with Dean’s blood still on his hands. 

Dean’s sore and uncomfortable, and really isn’t in the goddamn mood for sex right now. Sam doesn’t seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm and presses their bodies together, cock already hard against Dean’s leg. Dean shifts, means to tell Sam to back off, wants to crack a joke about Sam being a horndog at all the wrong moments. But his mouth is open, body slack and unresisting, and he can’t seem to get the words out. Sam breaks the kiss and Dean thinks he’s done, figured it out from Dean’s lack of enthusiasm. 

Instead he’s flipped over dizzyingly and Dean feels immaterial, unanchored, Sam easily manhandling him like he’s a doll and not 190 pounds of dead weight. He’s pushed over onto his hands and knees and his arms give way immediately, sliding down the bed so his face is pressed into the pillow. Even through the fuzzy haze of pain medication this position _hurts_ , his injured shoulder pressed into the hard mattress. Dean moans, and Sam seems to think he’s responding to the hand groping Dean’s ass roughly, presses down harder. “You like that, huh?” Dean wants to say _no I don’t, asshole, it fucking hurts_ but he can’t get enough air to speak. 

Mercifully Sam backs off, mattress creaking as he reaches down and pulls something out of the duffel on the floor. Dean hears the click of the lube bottle opening, feels Sam’s slick fingers touch the rim of his hole, circling gently. He presses two fingers in immediately, stretching Dean open, two then three fingers, quick and robotic. 

“Sam,” Dean finally says, voice muffled by the pillow and the sheets around his head, “Sam – “ _wait_ , but Sam doesn’t wait, thrusts his cock into Dean’s ass in one fluid, unyielding motion. He doesn’t waste any time fucking Dean, every thrust putting more and more pressure on Dean’s arm until it feels like his shoulder is ripping open all over again. The pain is bright and sharp as if Dean hadn’t taken any meds at all, but he doesn’t seem to have control over his body. Feels helpless as Sam pounds into him like he doesn’t care, like Dean doesn’t even matter – 

By the time Sam’s finished Dean’s given up trying to say anything and is just waiting for it to be over. Sam flips Dean back over, easy, and touches Dean’s soft cock. He seems unbothered by the lack of interest, gives a few perfunctory strokes and stops when Dean shoves at his hand with shaky fingers. 

“Can’t get it up, Dean? That’s not like you.” Sam smirks at Dean, like it’s a joke, that what just happened was completely normal and Dean’s just experiencing some embarrassing whiskey dick or something.  


“Fuck off,” Dean mutters. With effort he rolls to his side, relieved some of his motor skills seem to be returning. He doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t want Sam to look at his face. 

Sam stretches next to him luxuriously, gives a contended yawn. He’s out like a light. Dean wants to drag himself to the other bed but doubts he could make it so he just lies there, tense, waiting for the sun to come up. 

\--- 

The next morning Dean’s sore all over. His shoulder bleeds a little, sluggishly, one of the stitches popped during their night of shitty, ill-advised sex. He feels strange, uncomfortable, skin stretched tight and hot over his body. He doesn’t look Sam in the eyes and is a dick to him all day, plays the music too loud in the Impala and flirts outrageously with the waitress, tells the friendly librarian embarrassing anecdotes about Sam while he’s trying to research. 

“What’s your fucking problem, Dean?” Sam finally yells, throwing his arms out wide in exasperation, after Dean purposely-on-accident knocks over Sam’s coffee cup and destroys an hour's worth of Sam’s research notes. 

“What’s my problem?” Dean’s pissed, too, bursting for a fight, angry and a feeling close to betrayal bubbling in his chest. “What the fuck was that, last night?”

“What about last night?” Sam sounds genuinely bewildered, the bastard. 

_“What about last night?”_ Dean repeats, disbelieving. “Do you or do you not remember fucking me into the mattress while I was barely conscious?”

“What?” Sam’s look of shock is almost comical, mouth dropping open stupidly as he stares at Dean. 

“I was clearly not in the fucking mood,” Dean half-yells, feeling embarrassed and regretful the moment the words spill out of his mouth. He keeps talking, faster, hoping to put Sam on the defense, “I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into you lately.”

“But… you didn’t say anything,” Sam says slowly, eyebrows creased into a small, confused frown. 

“I wasn’t even fucking hard, Sam,” Dean spits, face flushing red in anger and a little bit of shame. But Sam’s right, Dean thinks. He didn’t say anything. 

“I’m sorry if you feel like I… did something you didn’t want,” Sam says, slowly. He’s leaning in, now, bangs flopping over his hangdog expression. He looks sad, confused, like Dean’s being unreasonable but he’s willing to take the blame if that’ll be what makes Dean feel better. “But I wish you would have told me, you know, if you didn’t want it. I’m not a mind-reader.”

“Oh fuck off, Sam, you know that’s not what I mean,” snaps Dean. 

“Then what do you mean?” Sam asks, concerned and gentle, like he’s talking to a fragile witness or calming down a freaked out civilian. 

“Whatever, dude, I’m done talking about this,” Dean says. “Just be less of a selfish dick next time.”

\--- 

Sam’s extra nice to Dean that week, tolerant, buys him pie and doesn’t complain when he eats it on his bed and drinks too much beer and gets in a barfight with three big truckers who take issue with Dean’s loud mouth. He doesn’t try and bring it up again, doesn’t try to make Dean talk about his _feelings_ , for which Dean is pathetically grateful. The next time they have sex it’s normal, good, and Sam’s considerate but not condescendingly so. It’s nice, and Dean feels himself relaxing into the routine, glad that things are back to normal, or at least as normal as it’ll ever be for them. 

\---

He checks the duffels, later. He looks at their med stock but all he finds are the typical over-the-counter meds mixed with occasional bottles of codeine and oxycodone squirreled away from rare hospital visits. Nothing that would make him immobile or cause the kind of reaction he had the other night. It’s stupid, because he knows Sam wouldn’t _drug him_ , knows Sam would never force him to do anything, was just overeager and selfish in that way he could be sometimes. 

Dean isn’t some fragile fucking girl, anyway, needing to be asked for permission before every little thing or some bullshit like that. He can handle Sam just fine. But it bothers him, the memory of Sam manipulating his barely-conscious body, niggles at the back of his mind with a sense of _Not Right_. What could Sam possibly have gotten out of it, Dean’s arms and legs floppy and uncoordinated, barely able to respond? He brushes the thoughts aside, impatient with himself. So maybe the cage fucked Sam up a bit, made him a little off. He always was a control freak, it wasn’t totally out of left field. Dean was fine, no harm done, so who cared anyway?

“Dean, you coming?” Sam yells from outside the motel, poking his head around the door. His eyes shift between the duffel bag in Dean’s hand and Dean’s face. 

“Yeah, Sammy, hold your horses,” Dean grumbles. “Just fixing your shoddy packing job.”

Sam rolls his eyes and turns away, unruffled. Dean hitches the bag over his right shoulder and resolves to put the whole shitty week out of his mind. 

Sam slaps him on the shoulder when he approaches the Impala. His hand lands on Dean’s left shoulder, where he was slashed open by the striga, and a shockwave of pain lances through it at the contact. Dean grimaces and flicks his eyes up to meet Sam’s, mouth opening to tell Sam he’s an inconsiderate ass. But Sam’s already looking back, eyes sharp and unsettlingly alien. The words die on his lips and Dean clears his throat, fishes his keys out of his pocket. 

“Hurry up and get in, I wanna be in Wisconsin by lunchtime.” Dean was the one holding them up but Sam's quiet as he slides into shotgun. Sam’s long form folded up in the Impala has always seemed like the most natural thing in the word, one of the few constants in Dean’s life, but looking at him now sets Dean’s teeth on edge. 

Dean sets his gaze on the road and lets the familiar rumble of the Impala ground him as they peel out of the motel’s parking lot and onto Route 151.

**Author's Note:**

> I have some ideas floating around, I might write a follow-up for this one.  
> Title is from the following quote: _"Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”_ — Mineko Iwasaki.


End file.
